


Over the Hills

by Ilvi



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: I'm not entirely sure yet what and who to tag for, M/M, Major Character Injury, frenemies to lovers, on a roadtrip nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25211572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilvi/pseuds/Ilvi
Summary: The emperor is poised to abdicate and cede the throne to his daughter, however old grudges still burn and not everyone is satisfied with the new status quo. Things soon take a turn for the magical and leave Emhyr stranded far out in the northern wilderness – as luck would have it, or perhaps it was fate – dependent on one white haired Witcher. Ciri meanwhile finds herself abruptly on the throne of the empire, forced to take responsibility much sooner than she had anticipated.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Emhyr var Emreis, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Morvran Voorhis, Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 49
Kudos: 201





	1. The One in Which Everything Goes to Shit

**Author's Note:**

> Since I keep running out of material to read my obsession has driven me to write. This fic has precious little planning and it’s the first thing I’m writing that isn’t a scientific paper. You have been warned but I hope you will enjoy it anyway ;)

_Over the hills,_

_And o’er the stream_

_To Cintra, Temeria and Kovir_

_The Emperor commands_

_And we obey_

_Over the hills_

_And far away~_

~oOo~

Golden light filtered out of the great hall, carrying into the evening breeze the soft sounds of music and polite laughter while inside the high society was dancing, turning in intricate circles to the gentle strings of Nilfgaard’s most famed musicians.

Emhyr stood amidst the sparkling masses like a rock in the sea, unwavering in the ebb and flow of bodies all around. And just like the sea came to the land, Nilfgaard’s elite came to him to pay their respects and vie for his favour, to be received with shrewd dignity and cool acknowledgment.

It was an old dance to him, one he knew inside and out. His newfound daughter however was still learning the steps. Cirilla by his side smoothed down her dress, her discomfort by now obvious to him, though not to those around them. She hid it well and not too long ago Emhyr himself would not have noticed the little signs. The way she shifted her stance into something a little more battle-ready, the small frown only truly visible in her eyes, the tight displeasure that tugged at the corners of her mouth… she was trying, he knew, she really was and she had made amazing progress already, however he also knew how much she loathed these balls and state functions. How she hated the prison of her dress and the lying sycophants scurrying around them like particularly sly rodents, always ready to lick his boots or bury a dagger in his back, whichever they thought they could get away with that would benefit them most.

Cirilla shifted again and this time Emhyr caught her eyes. When he was sure of her attention, he gave her one of the rare smiles they only ever shared in private. Something for encouragement. And as rocky as their relationship had been, or rather still was, at times, she had learned to read him as well and understood the message: _You are doing well. This will be over soon_.

The grin she gifted him in response was much more freely given and much too cheeky for a future empress, but he let it slide and he very decidedly did not examine how her smile made his heart twinge with regret and imagined could-have-beens. However, he did allow himself a moment to marvel at the fact that Cirilla even accepted any sort of comfort from him. Not too long ago she would have scorned him and any attempts at familiarity, and for good reason. To have her respond now with a wink and a grin instead of the suspicion he so rightfully deserved was a small miracle in and of itself. There was much he would never be able to make amends for, he knew, much he had broken that could not be fixed and yet she had decided to take up his offer and grant him a second chance. Now, here was another thing he had learned: he did not want to disappoint her, not ever again.

Cirilla was still holding his gaze, her smile now softer, perhaps wise to some of his mind’s conflict or perhaps she had sensed his distraction. He did not know how she did it, if it was natural astuteness or yet another witcher-trained talent, but her intuition was incredible. Then the moment passed and Cirilla refocused her attention, as yet another Lord and Lady approached them.

Emhyr was almost glad to have escaped her scrutiny even though his suddenly fluttering heart demanded more of her smile, always, always more. But now was not the right time for sentimentalities and so he fixed the approaching newcomers with a calculating look of his own, leveling his breathing to force himself, body and mind, into calm.

They were minor nobles, ones his daughter had not met before but knew of. Insignificant in the grand scheme but demanding respect anyway. Emhyr bent down to murmur their names into Cirilla’s ear. She inclined her head in his direction but gave no further indication of having heard him. Still, he could already see her clever mind draw the necessary connections in her ever-expanding mental map of the empire.

Cirilla greeted them with a gracious smile and the courtly dance continued. More pleasantries were exchanged, more grovelling commenced and Emhyr stepped back to let his daughter and heir take the reins of this conversation. Cirilla readily responded to the challenge, head held high and proud, commanding the room through sheer force of will and the weight of her presence and voice. Emhyr felt another smile tug on his lips as he looked on. It truly was a pleasure watching her wind these people around her little finger and all that was required of him now was to look stern and nod in the right places. He forced any traces of this traitorous little smile off his face and schooled his expression back into something suitably regal just as Cirilla seemed to do the same. It was in moments like this that he could see the Empress she would become. Full of natural grace, a predator’s instinct behind a friendly face. But compassionate and understanding as well. A kinder ruler for a kinder time, perhaps.

Seeing how she had everything in hand splendidly he decided to make his exit. It would give her more room to try herself, he reasoned, unfettered by his presence. She still needed to practice what she had learned in theory both from her tutors and from himself, however the time for supervision was coming to an end. If she was to succeed him then she would need to prove herself, both to the vipers of the court and to herself and she simply could not do that with him present.

He left her to it.

Looking back, it must have been this fuzzy warm pride that distracted him because he really should have seen the man coming. But as it was, he had been otherwise occupied and noticed far too late and only once the dagger had been thrown.

For a moment time seemed almost frozen as he contemplated his options and found them lacking – she was too far away. So Emhyr did the one thing he could do and stepped between the blade and its path towards Cirilla’s unguarded back.

There was a flash of pain.

A searing heat.

Someone screamed.

The world shuddered.

But the clamour that arose once the people around them had realised what had happened was drowned out by the portal that opened up to take him. Cirilla’s green eyes, wide with worry, were the last thing he saw before the oppressive void between worlds swallowed him whole a heartbeat later.


	2. Far Over Yonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like to torture your favourite characters? Because I do. However if you’d rather not read about Emhyr having a really bad time, then you might want to skip this chapter.

The sun was setting over the mountains, spilling its last rays into vast valleys and illuminating barren peaks, chasing flickering shadows along the swaying pines. It was cold up here, and lonely. Still in a way only true solitude could be – until a portal rent the silence, the sudden vortex startling a flock of crows into flight, to dot the pink skies like so many bad omens.

Emhyr stumbled as the void spit him out in a whirl of colours and impression, slipped, and fell, the rocky ground harsh under his hands. He swore. Tried to sit up only to buckle under a wave of pain and nausea. For a moment he could do nothing but breathe as the freezing wind cut right through his courtly attire. When next he tried to sit up, shivering, he was prepared for the weakness that followed, breathing deep to stay upright. It did little to alleviate his confusion however, his mind a jumble of shreds: images of a ballroom, a knife, Cirilla... he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate but the world kept spinning and it was getting worse. At the same time he felt his shoulder burning and so he brought a hand up to touch, fingers finding the blade and coming away red, the colour stunning against his clammy skin.

In a moment of clarity, he realised it must be something on the blade addling his mind, so he reached back up. It took longer this time to find the source of his pain, hands shaking and clumsy in their search. There was a tingling his fingertips and he didn’t feel it anymore as they closed around the hilt. He braced himself. And yanked it out, only just stifling a gasp. His chest felt too tight to breathe. A fresh wave of nausea broke over him and he dropped again. Then, suddenly, there were hands hauling him up and even though his world was still rapidly spinning out of control he would recognize these feline amber eyes anywhere.

“Witcher!”

~oOo~

“Fuck.”

“ _Fuck_.” Geralt repeated, with more emphasis this time.

He trudged through the undergrowth, brambles snagging on his legs, and checked once more on the emperor hanging off his shoulder. He’d gone almost completely limp, only the occasional twitch betraying life and held up by the arm slung around his torso. A deadweight at his side. He nudged him a bit with his free hand to get a reaction. “You still alive, Emhyr?”

“Ngh.”

“Alright.” That was probably the best he was gonna get anyway, Geralt decided.

By the time he got him back to camp, Emhyr was barely coherent. Geralt let him down gently and he folded like a puppet with its strings cut. He prayed, for both their sakes, really, that Emhyr wouldn’t remember any of this and, seeing how he was mumbling something unintelligible in what might have been Nilfgaardian, Geralt didn’t think he would.

With a sigh he knelt by Emhyr and got to work, with little help or resistance from the man himself. Upon closer inspection the wound itself wasn’t too bad and Geralt moved to quell the bleeding. Lucky bastard didn’t seem to have hit anything immediately dangerous, though only time would tell how it would heal. Still, he wasn’t bleeding out and a mage could repair any resulting weakness or stiffness of the arm. It was more the poison that worried him right now.

Geralt studied the knife, noting the sticky residue coating parts of the blade, still undissolved underneath the blood. He brought it up to his nose, took an experimental whiff and – there was the metallic scent of blood, of course, but also something acrid. Aracha venom, he thought, laced with something he couldn’t identify, something metallic too but different from both the blood and the metal of the blade. His medallion hummed at the proximity to the weapon, the runes on it glinting in the last light of day. Very well, Aracha he could work with. He’d just have to hope the mystery trace didn’t cause too many issues.

“Right,” Geralt said “let me just get some supplies and then I’ll fix you up.”

He made to get up however Emhyr held him back, weakly clutching on his arm. “Essea tu-“ he was interrupted by a cough that left him breathless.

“No, you’re not.” Geralt told him, carefully disentangling himself. “You’re going to be alright, you hear me?”

Roach looked at him curiously as he began rifling through his saddlebags for anything useable. Drawing out herbs and salves and tinctures, all the while trying to put the weirdness of the situation out of his mind until later, when he would have the time to properly examine what the hell just happened. Because one moment he had been peacefully alone out in the wilderness and the next his medallion was vibrating and Roach was pawing at the ground, eyes wild and ears pinned back. He’d felt the portal more than he’d heard it, but it had been obvious that it was close. So he went to investigate. Nothing good ever came out of random portals in the woods and it wouldn’t do to get ambushed later. And he had been prepared for a lot but not _this_ , and yet, somehow, this was exactly what he got. _Fuck_.

Geralt looked down at his haul and frowned. He didn’t have any anti-venom. Witchers didn’t need it when Golden Oriole was available and there was no time to make any either. There wasn’t much else in his inventory suited for human consumption anyway, but still, there were things he could do to help. And if it came to it... his hand brushed the little vial with the gleaming liquid inside and he quietly pocketed it. Thought back to Lena... well, no point worrying about that right now, he had a job to do.

When Geralt returned, Emhyr was out cold. He shared a worried look with Roach and then did his best to dress the wound and counteract the poison. Finally, with Emhyr bundled up in whatever furs and blankets he had to offer, he settled down right next to him to keep his watch, occasionally wiping away sweat or holding his wrist. He could hear his heart beating but it was comforting to feel it too, and it wasn’t like Emhyr could object right now. There was no thinking of sleep so Geralt kept himself busy. They might not always see eye to eye... or ever, really, but he resolved that he would never mention any of this. He watched a new bout of shivering wrack Emhyr and felt his heart clench, finding it unexpectedly hard seeing this proud man so miserable. There just was no dignity in poisonings.

Time passed and Geralt stoked the fire. His thoughts turned in circles. Roach was nearby grazing peacefully, undisturbed by the worry of his master and less than impressed with any magical shenanigans. Absentmindedly he reached out to the prone form next to him, hand on his forehead to check his temperature again. He had been doing that a lot this night so this time he decided to just leave his hand where it was, gently smoothing down Emhyr’s hair. Geralt wasn’t sure if he meant to comfort himself or the other man.

Eventually he returned his attention to the dagger laid out before him, the one he’d found along with Emhyr. It was fairly small and thin. Easy to conceal, but all the more ornamented for it and covered to the hilt in runes, not all of which Geralt could read. However, he got the gist: incapacitate, supress and banish. As far as he could tell the thing was meant to definitely kill its victim dead, even if the wielder botched the initial attack. The teleportation runes were an interesting touch and something he hadn’t seen before. He traced them carefully. They didn’t seem to have a set destination, instead targeting a place at random following some set parameters to send the victim to the most remote and hostile place possible, to be lost and mauled by whatever monsters lurked in the wild places of the land. It was pure luck that Geralt had happened to be nearby. Or maybe he counted as one of those wild creatures in the eyes of whatever magic had fuelled this thing.

Emhyr at his side shifted again, caught up in nightmares and fever dreams and steadily deteriorating. Geralt sighed. Fidgeted again with his vial of Golden Oriole.

“Roach, what do you think I should do?”

Roach didn’t answer, but he did toss his head at him and wandered over to nibble on his hair. He huffed a laugh and petted his velvet nose.

“Yeah, I could use a bit support, thanks.”

Witcher potions weren’t fit for people, there was just no telling what the side-effects would be. Again, he thought back to poor Lena, whose brain he’d permanently scrambled with Swallow... of course without his interference Lena would have been dead. This way she was alive at least, but at what price?

“Was it the right thing to do?” He asked his horse.

Roach continued nibbling on his hair.

Geralt leaned back. Closed his hand around the vial. Closed his eyes.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

And jumped as Emhyr curled up, struggling to breathe. Geralt could hear his heart racing but when he reached out for him his pulse felt frighteningly thready.

In a flash he had his answer: _Yes_.

Yes, it had been right.

Lena had deserved that chance. She’d survived and as long as she survived, she had a chance and Emhyr deserved that fighting chance as well.

He was a stubborn bastard, he’d push through.

Geralt fumbled for the Golden Oriole, his mind made up for him and then drew Emhyr into his lap, propping him up against his shoulder to administer the potion. He stayed that way, the emperor cradled in his arms for what felt like hours, but was probably just minutes, until Emhyr’s heart and breathing eased somewhat and Geralt was sure he hadn’t just killed his daughter’s father. He let his head fall back and almost felt like laughing.

“Fucking hell, Emhyr, don’t you dare do this to me!”

He got no answer.

~oOo~

Emhyr ran, from what he didn’t know but there was a fire fuelling him. It started from his shoulder and burned all the way through his heart, his lungs, his very blood, and it spurred him on and on, ever forward through the forest, past greedy eyes and grasping hands trying to trip him up, a loping shadow following always just a step behind, its form monstrous and covered in spikes.

He burst through a lonesome door and the scene changed, but the shadow stayed, always breathing down his neck and running probing claws up his back, where they left countless pinpricks in their wake. Now there was a bed, Pavetta in it, and the heat in his blood seemed of a different nature. He stumbled forward and fell heavy on her, barely able to brace himself on shaking arms, only to scramble back in ice cold horror as the form underneath him changed and shrunk in on itself until the emerald eyes staring up at him were no longer Pavetta’s but Ciri’s, just as green but young and panicked and full of tears ready to spill over. He recoiled, breathless, losing his balance on an edge he hadn’t realised was there and before he knew it, he was falling, plummeting into a never-ending abyss.

For a while there was nothing but darkness and the howling of the storm, rain slowly washing away the blaze burning him up until he hit the ocean’s surface, its lightless depths dousing the last of the flames in a gentle embrace. In the distance he saw a light, flickering. Warm. Welcoming. He swam towards it and when he finally opened his eyes, night was stretched like a thick blanket over the forest.

Emhyr watched sparks rising towards the stars as if to join their cousins in the great canopy, held warm by the gentle glow of embers. There sat a shadow beside him, cleaning a sword, the rhythmic swish of cloth over steel soothing somehow. He drifted off again watching the sparks fly away, this time into a calmer, more restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been thinking long and hard about magic and the possible plot holes it creates. I’ve decided I don’t care. Magic now behaves in whatever way is necessary to make this roadtrip work.


	3. When the Dust Settles, Duty Calls

“I do not _care_ how difficult it is, I want it done!”

Ciri sat back after her outburst, glaring Rideaux into submission. The spymaster gave her a curt bow and excused himself, hopefully to do his job properly now, just as Yen stalked in. Ciri turned to the other man in the room, Miran, captain of the guard. “Leave us,” she ordered.

He fled.

Yennefer watched him go and then raised a teasing eyebrow at Ciri. “Emhyr hasn’t been gone a day and you’re already turning into him.”

That earned the sorceress a glare but there was no real heat in it. “You would too if you’d had to deal with this shit day,” she told her. Ciri flopped over on Emhyr’s desk, scattering all sorts of papers with the motion and doubtlessly ruining a letter or two. Her face found her arms and she hid it with a groan.

And just as she’d settled, she felt a pang of guilt for messing up Emhyr’s meticulous paperwork. Sitting here in his place, at his desk, doing his work... it felt unreal. Like she could turn around and he’d be there, waiting, watching, calculating. And just as vividly she could imagine his disapproving look when he came back and she’d inadvertently messed up his system: Face blank, one eyebrow pulled up. He wouldn’t even have to say a word because in moments like that his eyes did all the talking. With a sigh and a whole lot of remembered embarrassment, Ciri pulled herself up again and made some halfhearted attempts at tidying up.

Meanwhile Yen had rounded the desk and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

Ciri gave up on the tidying and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “It’s just...” she trailed off, gathering her thoughts, “it’s all a bit much. And they all treat me as if I’m going to break any minute now.”

The entire palace was on edge, obviously, though they had been mostly wrangled back into order by Mererid. However, an air of anxiety remained. She herself had gone to bed in a daze. Eventually. Once exhaustion had begun to set in. And after it had become apparent that any more impromptu emergency conferences were futile and there was nothing more she could do.

But when she’d woken up again, everything just got so much worse. It began with her ladies-in-waiting and she should have taken it as a warning for things to come. Marielle especially had been talking too much and making too many sympathetic noises, until Dala shot her a glare that thankfully shut her up. All the servants were tip toeing around nervously, all the guards looking over their shoulders and all the officials expressing their condolences. As if he was already dead.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she decided.

Yennefer hummed in agreement and began carding soothing fingers through her ruffled hair.

Ciri sat still and stewed in her stress for a while.

Truth be told, it wasn’t just the way people were treating her, it was the entirety of the situation. Everything was just... a bit too much.

The attack may have thrown them into chaos but of course the disappearance of the emperor didn’t mean that the business of running an empire came to a stop – no, as his heir she’d had to take over in a hurry and now served as de facto head of state until Emhyr returned... or was declared dead.

Ciri shook herself and studiously avoided that other option – right now she had an empire to run and an investigation to lead. Not that she was allowed to do much personally. It was more a matter of listening to reports and signing off on actions, Rideaux and Miran took care of the rest. She herself was fully occupied with what was Emhyr’s daily workload and it was breaking her brain. She’d known what he was doing, of course, had even taken over bits and pieces for herself and she’d spent a great deal of time looking over Emhyr’s shoulder while he worked, so she was familiar enough with the process and aware of most issues and orders crossing the emperor’s desk.

It was a different beast altogether to suddenly be drowned with the full extent of his duties, the task orders of magnitude beyond what she felt ready for. Life had pulled the rug out from under her and she was falling, falling, falling, with a squeezing in her chest that she refused to acknowledge.

She groaned. “How does he _do_ this?!”

Yen’s fingers stilled in their gentle administrations and then they were gone and she wrapped Ciri up in a hug. “He’s had a lot of practice.” There was a kiss against the side of her head. “And in time so will you.”

“I’d rather go drowner hunting in Velen,” Ciri grumbled. But she rallied, dropped her hunched up shoulders and shook off the lingering fatigue. She straightened up to look at Yen, breaking their contact.

Yen let her go.

“Anything new from the attacker?” Ciri asked, still refusing to call him assassin because that made her think of death and she couldn’t imagine Emhyr actually being dead.

“Some.” Yen shrugged, her face impassive, yet Ciri heard the anger in her voice.

“I’ve had a little talk with him.” Yen continued, “One Varas Aldert aep Bern. Not that his name helps much – the man really doesn’t know anything significant. And nothing about where Emhyr might be either.” She added, seeing Ciri’s questioning look.

Yennefer took a step back and began pacing. “He comes from a long line of minor nobles, you know the type: always on the fringes of power trying to break in and still never quite succeeding. The war has cost him dearly. Not just money but sons too.”

Here she stopped and regarded Ciri, her face somber. “Enough reason to hold a grudge and perhaps a desire to do to the man responsible what has been done to himself.” She shook her head. “When he was approached by a stranger with an idea and a promise it didn’t take much to convince him. What more did he have to lose?”

Ciri leaned back, contemplative. “So, he wanted to kill me to hurt Emhyr, only Emhyr got in the way. It was all out of revenge?”

“For him perhaps.” Yen leaned against the edge of Emhyr’s desk. “But someone put him up to this.”

“And let me guess, he doesn’t know who.”

Yennefer inclined her head. “Quite so. He knows neither the strangers name, nor has he seen his face. But he did tell me that he claimed to speak for a larger group.”

Ciri sighed and massaged her temple. This brought them right back to square one. “Well,” she began, “it’s more than Rideaux or captain Miran have gotten out of him at least.” Mindreading be thanked. Ciri waved her hand. “Anything else?”

Yen looked down at her with a curiously worried expression. “The dagger was poisoned and spiked with dimeritium powder.”

Ciri sat up in concern. “Poison?” Then she thought better of it as her brain caught up and the second part of the sentence registered. “Wait, why dimeritium?”

“To suppress your magical abilities, apparently.”

“With a powder? Would that have worked?”

Yen shrugs. “Possibly. It may explain why my scrying has been unsuccessful so far.”

Ciri sunk back in her seat and she couldn’t ignore the gnawing uncertainty in the pit of her stomach any longer, even though she wanted nothing more than to pretend everything would be alright, that they’d find him, and he’d be pissed off but fine. “Could you still find him if he was dead?”

“I don’t know.” Yen brought her hand up to cup Ciri’s face, stroking her thumb over the scar that bisected her cheek. “But I will keep trying. I promise.”

“Alright.” Ciri leaned into the touch, allowing herself that moment of comfort. There was a knock at the door and she steeled herself. “Alright.” They parted as Mererid came in.

Mererid eyed Yennefer with the usual, mutual, suspicion and then addressed Ciri. “My Lady, the ambassadors are waiting.” Ciri in turn look up at Yen as well, trying to convey the full breadth of her annoyed resignation. But there was nothing for it, duties were duties and she didn’t want to make Mererid’s life any harder than necessary. The man looked drawn enough already and she imagined he must be worried beyond belief. “Thank you, Mererid, I will be there momentarily.”

She turned to Yen with an explanation as Mererid bowed out. “It’s that delegation from Toussaint. They still want to argue about trade routes. Trade routes! Can you imagine?” She hid her eyes behind her hand, helplessly waving with the other. “As if we didn’t have any other issues right now.”

Yen squeezed her shoulder. “Go on then, don’t let me keep you from your duties. I’ll have a word with the others, we need to tighten security.” She turned to leave, then reconsidered and added with gentle admonishment. “Be careful. And don’t forget to eat.”

Ciri grinned up at her, then her smile diminished somewhat. “Yen...” she began uncertain, “I just, uh – thank you for coming to the city so quickly.”

Yen turned back, a solemn smile on her lips. “Anything for you, Ciri.”

Ciri felt her eyes burn. “Thank you.”

Yen continued. “And you know, I’ll always be here if you need to talk.”

When Ciri smiled back her expression wasn’t quite as steady as she wanted it to be. “I know. I’m fine.”

~oOo~

Ciri was not fine. The bustle of the day had kept her mind off it, but now, alone with her thoughts, she just couldn’t get the attack out of her head, the scene replaying in excruciating detail again and again, like a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. If she’d reacted a bit faster, maybe... She shook her head and concentrated on evading yet another patrol. They’d already doubled up the guards everywhere, even on the way to the stables. Still, she was Witcher-trained and by now she knew these halls like the back of her hand. It was a challenge but a welcome one. However, she’d also have to talk with captain Miran tomorrow about the remaining gaps in patrol patterns.

The moon shone bright and the stable hands were long gone when Ciri vaulted in through an open window beneath the gable, landing soft. For a moment she stayed there, crouched and listening, but nothing moved other than the mice and horses. With her eyes closed she took in the sounds and smells, horse, hay and leather. Finally, Ciri relaxed. Calmer than she’d been all day she began counting out the boxes until she came to her own mare.

“Hello, Princess.”

Princess greeted her with a puff of air and a nibble as she went searching for treats. With a laugh Ciri presented the apple she’d filched from the kitchens and then leaned her head against her mare’s. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had,” she whispered over the apple’s crunching but before she had a chance to elaborate, the stable doors creaked open.

Ciri froze. In the twilight she could just make out Morvran.

“Ah, I thought I might find you here, My Lady.”

“General Voorhis,” Ciri replied, somewhat ruffled. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, the effect ruined by Princess nosing and nibbling at her in a quest for more apples.

They fell into an awkward silence while the general seemed to search for words. Ciri could see the moment he decided to just go for it.

“I... just wished to make sure you’re holding up alright,” he began. “Much has happened, and it must all be rather overwhelming.” He turned his palms up in a placating gesture and stepped a bit closer.

Ciri relaxed and let her arms drop again. Morvran was no threat. “I’m alright. But thank you for your concern,” she said, by now well practiced in accepting condolences as well as inquiries after her wellbeing.

He’d come to stand underneath a window and in the soft moonlight she thought he looked every bit as tired and befuddled as she felt. Somehow, in a rush of solidarity, she wanted to reach out to him. “I know Emhyr’s your mentor too.”

If he was surprised at her acknowledgement, he didn’t show it. Instead he just folded his hands behind his back and replied, “It is true, I have learned much from him... and I can’t say that I am unaffected by recent events.” He swallowed, then fixed his eyes on her with new intensity. “But I would be honoured to help you in whatever capacity I can.”

Ciri considered him. She knew by now, that he was her most likely candidate for marriage, but they hadn’t seen much of each other so far. She just didn’t know him. Still, the match was all but certain and it was rather sweet of him to check on her. Not to mention that he’d only ever been polite to her or Geralt.

Mind made up she smiled at him, just a little quirk of the mouth. “I would appreciate that.”

The general smiled back, reflexively, she thought. Cautious and uncertain. Which surprised her because she had never taken him for shy. In a bid to cheer him up, Ciri asked the first thing that came to mind, “Which one’s yours?” She indicated the horses around them.

Morvran lit up with enthusiasm, thankful for the diversion, and Ciri couldn’t help but grin.

They spent longer than she would have expected, just chatting, and by the end of it she was feeling much lighter already, some of her anxieties soothed through carefree conversation and friendly human connection. She thought back to her snowball fight with Geralt. Laughter was a medicine of its own.

He’d shown her his horse, an elegant palfrey, much like her own, and somehow, after an invitation to come see his other horses at his estate some time, they’d drifted through topics: from the best training practices for Witcher’s steeds to the drawbacks and benefits of the ofieri style of saddle. Eventually, during a surprisingly companionable lull in the conversation, he pointed at Princess.

“Are you planning on taking her out tonight?”

Ciri put a hand out to scratch behind Princess’ ears. “Not for long, I need to be up early tomorrow.” She laughed. “But I also need to clear my head a bit. Desperately.”

He passed her an approving look and nodded. “Then please, enjoy your midnight ride, My Lady.” He bowed and bid her a good night and just like that she was alone in the quiet again.

Ciri made short work of the tack, not bothering with a saddle in this strange night, and soon, in a flash of green, the stables were empty of both princesses.

Moments later there was an equal flash of green a few miles out of the city, and the bright midnight moon saw a rider galloping under her pale light, hair windswept and glinting like spun silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My finals are coming close which is rather stressful so I may not have much inspiration (or time) for writing come August. However, my WIP file is up to 15k and growing so I think I’ll have plenty of material to work with in September once the damned exams are done.


	4. And the Sun Did Rise

Emhyr came to late the next day and Geralt almost didn’t notice.

The day had turned beautiful as the usually nippy spring got an early start at playing summer, all in sharp contrast to his own mood. It should be grey and drizzling, Geralt mused as he looked up into crystal clear skies. Perhaps a bit of thunder too.

But there was no thunder and no drizzle either, just a blackbird somewhere off in the rustling pines, singing its little heart out and Roach’s soft shuffling. With the afternoon sun warm on his back and a torn shirt in his lap, the witcher turned back to his mending.

He’d busied himself all day, going through the motions in a vain attempt to keep his mind off the man currently occupying his bedroll. Not that it had helped much, Geralt had still ended up constantly checking on Emhyr, even though his condition had remained mostly unchanged since he’d given him the Golden Oriole the night before. The emperor slept, looking sick and dishevelled and for once just all too human.

Geralt hunched down further over the hole he was working on.

It was the prickling at the back of his neck, the old familiar feeling of being watched, that made him look up and meet amber eyes.

Geralt grinned back, finally shedding some of the worry gnawing at his innards like a harpy shed feathers. “You’re awake.”

“Witcher.” Emhyr rasped out, frown already forming. “What-“ He broke off, out of breath and visibly confused.

Geralt could see the gears in his head creaking into motion, already trying to work out what had happened, how he got here, wherever ‘here’ was and so on. Questions upon questions, no doubt endlessly frustrating to a man so used to answers. The witcher couldn’t help but smile and came to kneel by Emhyr’s side. “How are you feeling?”

Emhyr tried to sit up but didn’t get far, falling back winded. He closed his eyes, frown deepening.

For a moment there was no answer and Geralt knew with sudden certainty that whatever would next come out of Emhyr’s mouth would be a lie.

“Fine.”

There it was, the lie.

Geralt tilted his head, studying him closely. He may have slept all day, but he still looked exhausted, dark shadows hanging under dull eyes like bruises and beard stubble marring his usually impeccable image. “Sure you are,” he replied.

Emhyr darted a glance up at him and then looked away. He swallowed. And finally admitted, “Nauseous.”

There was another pause while he wrestled with his own pride. Geralt didn’t push.

“Sore.”

An understatement if ever there was one.

Geralt hummed and got up to rifle once more through his saddlebags while Roach looked on curiously. Willow, myrtle, mint – the witcher sorted out the herbs and picked a few for tea. Meanwhile Emhyr struggled upright, the effort clearly sapping what little strength he had, and Geralt thought he already looked about ready to keel back over. He continued watching him out of the corners of his eyes while he waited for the water to boil.

Emhyr sat doubled over and breathing deep while trying to compose himself. There was no trace of his customary regal posture. The blanket had slipped down, revealing more sickly ashen skin and blue tinged veins, and the witcher saw him shiver under his bandages. Emhyr fumbled with one trembling hand to draw the blanket closer around himself, wincing whenever he jostled the arm on his injured right.

It was the same when Geralt pressed a cup of tea in his hands, warm and reeking of herbs – one arm drawn protectively near, the other trembling. Emhyr held the cup close and inhaled the fumes, his eyes shut tight and brow furrowed.

“Drink. It’ll help.” Geralt took a cup for himself and settled near Emhyr. To his surprise the emperor followed his order.

For a while they sat in silence and Geralt didn’t push, even though he had plenty of questions. They could wait until after tea. It seemed to him that Emhyr could really use a moment to revive himself over a drink. The man looked like shit.

But before they got that far, Emhyr addressed him, his voice still rough. “Where are we?”

“Kestrel Mountains.” Geralt snatched up a stick and sketched a map in the dirt. “Between the Buina and the pass to Ghelibol.” He jabbed the stick at the point in question.

Emhyr studied the wonky drawing for a while, sipping on his tea. “That is some ways off the mountain pass,” he said, “as well as any villages. What brings you out here?”

Yen did. But he wasn’t gonna tell him that. Emhyr didn’t need to know about the heartbreak or relationship troubles he was running away from. Geralt shrugged. “Tracked a wyvern up here. It was causing trouble along the pass.” Which wasn’t false but also not the real reason.

However, Emhyr accepted it readily enough and Geralt figured now was as good a time as any. “So,” he began, “wanna explain what this is all about?”

He had seen the dagger, of course, and could piece it together on his own, but it was always good to hear it from those involved. That was one of the first things he’d learned on the path – no matter how many clues you have gathered, always make people tell you. He’d caught plenty of liars and frauds that way. Not that he thought Emhyr was a fraud. A liar perhaps, when he deemed it necessary, but right now he might have some further insights to share.

Again, Emhyr took a while to answer, brow furrowed and eyes trained on some spot in the middle distance, hesitant in a way Geralt had never seen him before. Another crack in the façade he’d tried to put up the moment he regained consciousness.

When he spoke, it was forcedly soft and measured, but still not quite masking the fatigue in his voice. “An attempted assassination it would seem.”

Geralt nodded. “You’ve got many enemies,” he prompted.

“That is the thing, Witcher,” now Emhyr turned to him, “the attack was not aimed at me but at Cirilla. I just got in the way.”

Geralt felt a chill run down his spine and settle in his gut. “Tell me everything.”

~oOo~

There wasn’t anything he could do.

The knowledge sat cold and hard in his stomach sending out icy tendrils into his blood.

Geralt paced while Emhyr was already nodding off again, uncomfortably reminded of his dreams in the past. Back then they had been prophetic, warning him of the danger to Ciri. He hadn’t had any dreams like that in a long time, and yet Ciri was in danger again. Not from the hunt perhaps, but from other vipers, no doubt hellbent on hurting her. One had gotten too close already, and there really wasn’t anything he could do.

At least not out here.

So he had done the next best thing and badgered Emhyr into being reasonable and resting.

Not that it was very difficult – the following days showed there was no fight left in the emperor. He trembled just holding a spoon, when he ate at all. For a while Emhyr looked vaguely nauseous at the mere suggestion of food, so he let him sleep and kept up a steady supply of herbal tea instead.

It’s wrong, Geralt thought, and resolved to make it better, somehow. Or at least to never, ever, mention this to anyone.

Emhyr let him fuss, even over his injured shoulder, and this compliance worried Geralt, more so than him dozing all day. It was likely born out of necessity. He didn’t doubt that, if Emhyr had the dexterity and range of motion necessary to take care of his own wound, he would do so. But as it was, he was sick and tired and his right side weak enough to be near useless.

And so they spent the first days, Geralt worrying and Emhyr doing little else but sleep, bundled up in all the blankets and skins Geralt had to offer.

However, to the witcher’s great relief he could soon see some progress, measured in attitude and scowls as Emhyr rebuilt his walls. The first time he levelled a glare at Geralt, Geralt grinned back so giddily, it startled Emhyr out of the glare. If he was ready to fight, then he was feeling better and Geralt felt light in a way he hadn’t since the world had dumped Emhyr in his lap.

~oOo~

Emhyr watched the witcher at sword practice.

He sat cross-legged against a tree, leeward to escape the cutting wind, and slowly, deliberately clenched and unclenched his right hand.

The witcher had told him to keep moving the arm, gently, that it would help keep strength and dexterity. And he tried, but even this slight exercise made the wound throb in time with his heartbeat and the pain radiated out through the entire limb until he wanted nothing more than to curl up and cradle his injured side. He didn’t. Instead he gingerly laid his hand down his lap. And then began drumming the fingers of his left against his knee. The witcher still refused to get moving.

He watched said witcher spin into a pirouette and reversed the drum pattern against his knee.

“I need to return to Nilfgaard as soon as possible,” he said as Geralt thrust his sword against an invisible foe. The ‘and you must get me there’ went unspoken but Emhyr was sure Geralt understood.

Emhyr felt his mouth twitch as Geralt carried on with his workout as though he hadn’t spoken. His shoulder continued throbbing, reminding him again how disgustingly dependent he was on the man. And it should have cut his pride to be seen helpless like this, except when the witcher looked at him, there was no judgement in his watchful eyes, no mockery or hidden laughter, just honest concern.

And so Emhyr surrendered to the witcher’s kindness and let himself be helped.

Still, this inaction was beginning to grate on what little patience he had left between the aching of his body and the anxiety at the sudden and forceful removal from his office. Unbidden the memory of that night sprang to mind, of Cirilla smiling up at him, and he wondered if she was doing alright, if he had prepared her well enough. Then again, he himself had been quite unprepared to rule when he -retook the throne of Nilfgaard and it had turned out alright.

Well, mostly alright.

Noticing he had been staring at nothing, Emhyr focused again on Geralt. He would just have to trust in Cirilla’s competence.

Geralt was just winding down, running through the last of his exercise and stretching out his muscles until his joints popped before finally looking at Emhyr. “We’ll stay a couple days longer.”

His tone was final and Emhyr huffed in frustration. “Every day we stay is a day wasted. If we tarry much longer then it might already be too late when I finally return to the palace.”

Geralt put away his swords and passed a hand over his face but Emhyr carried on. “What about Cirilla? There is a plot against her, surely you must-“

Geralt interrupted him with a determined “No.” He sighed and pointed out, “We don’t know if it’s a plot.”

Emhyr found himself under the full force of the witcher’s scrutiny now and there it was again, the concern.

The witcher continued, softer now, “I worry about Ciri too but you’re in no state to travel. We’ll stay a couple days longer, you’ll rest up some more and _then_ we’ll move.”

It stung how right he was, how reasonable. Emhyr sat up straight and crossed his arms, ignoring the protesting burn in his shoulder. He replied almost petulantly. “I am well enough. We must hurry.” His mind whispered back at him how he wasn’t even well enough to properly change his own bandages, but he shoved that thought away. Needs must and he had travelled under worse conditions before. Granted, that had been a long time ago, but still...

Emhyr drew breath for another rebuttal but Geralt had already thrown up his hands, exasperated. “Look, we’re weeks away from civilisation, months from Nilfgaard.” His eyes turned pleading. “A couple days more won’t make a difference. Besides, you’re not helping anyone if you push yourself too hard and keel over.”

Emhyr glared at the witcher, mouth pressed into a thin line.

Geralt studied him again, searching, and then changed the topic. “Do you play Gwent?”

A peace offering.

“...I have never had the opportunity.”

Geralt grinned wide. “I’ll explain the rules then.”

Emhyr would have found it embarrassing how quickly he pounced on the distraction and allowed himself to be redirected, if it weren’t for the mind numbing boredom that had crept up on him once the nausea subsided and he didn’t sleep away most of the day.

~oOo~

That evening found them on opposing sides of a battlefield, the cards laid out between them like soldiers ready to march – Emhyr’s with military precision in neat rows and Geralt’s own more haphazard and barely keeping line.

Geralt frowned down at his hand and the shit deck, a result of too many unlucky draws, laughing back at him. He then chanced another glance at Emhyr. “Are you sure you haven’t played before?” It was an hour and three rounds since Geralt had explained the rules and he was losing. Badly.

“Very.”

Emhyr’s tone was dry but Geralt thought he could hear a smirk.

“Are you sure _you_ have?” Emhyr drawled back.

When Geralt looked up properly at his opponent there was nothing there behind that pokerface. Geralt squinted at Emhyr and then at his cards again.

“I don’t believe you,” he said as he lost another round. “You should come to the next Gwent tournament with me. You’d destroy them.”

This time Geralt was sure he could see a smirk on Emhyr, if only in the way his eyes crinkled at the suggestion, with some of his lost spark reigniting and lighting up his entire demeanour.

Well, at least it was putting his mind off things. Calmed some of the restlessness Geralt himself was feeling just as keenly, so it was worth it, even if it was a harsh blow against his ego. For the first time since Emhyr had woken up he seemed to be enjoying himself somewhat and Geralt had to grudgingly admit that he was too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank y’all for the lovely feedback and encouragements. I live for the validation of Kudos and comments, so that has been very nice ;)
> 
> Next chapter will come in September.


	5. Of Wisps and Wyverns

Ciri opened her eyes to a sea of fog, a solid mass rolling blue and silver with the faint light of dawn just beyond. And yet this steely hue seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.

She spun around, her recognition sparked, and the musty waft clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes – misting cheeks and eyelashes and muffling the world down to a whisper.

It was too quiet beyond the static of her ears.

No sound penetrated the grey wall closing in, except for the ever persistent drip, drip, drip of water seeping through the cracks and carving new channels into these ancient stones.

Kaer Morhen lay abandoned and forgotten before her, shrouded in the low hanging clouds as if in a burial cloth and beset by damp and rot, the sorry ruin of her childhood. Far below her vantage point up on the eastern tower she could barely make out the courtyard through the haze, glinting with frost and undisturbed in a beautiful mockery of peace.

No soul still dwelled within these halls. This she knew for certain, this she could feel in her guts

The castle was dead.

Dread crept down her spine and Ciri turned away from the battlements, finding the hatch down without a second thought. It creaked open under protest but it still let her through to the spiralling staircase down into the belly of the keep.

Carefully Ciri made her way inside, along the crumbling path winding into the dark, fingertips sliding over stone made slick with dew and algae, her steps echoing down the empty tower. With her descent she left the sparse light behind that lanced the shadows through weathered cracks and gaps and crept ever further down, down towards the ground where the darkness was complete like the void between worlds, waiting to swallow her whole.

She stepped into the inky abyss, carried forward by muscle memory alone. Her feet found old familiar paths and she moved silent like a ghost through memories, down barren rooms and deserted corridors and vacant halls.

Just when the shadows began playing tricks on her mind, Ciri spotted a glimmer in the dark, flickering and far away, as though someone had lit a candle and carried it off.

“Hello?” she called.

Only her echo answered.

The little flame moved further away, dancing in a draft she couldn’t feel and Ciri hurried to follow, only just avoiding a fall over broken slabs of stone. Her nagging thoughts kept whispering, I _know_ where we are going, and the flicker kept its distance, always staying well ahead no matter how fast she ran.

It lead her out of the dark, out of the keep and into the courtyard, where it took a sharp turn and bobbed towards the pendulums.

The yard was as she remembered it from that night, an ice encrusted mess, but now it lay empty with no one else around. None of her friends, none of the hunt, and no candle bearer either. In the grey light of dawn she saw no candle, no source, just a ball of light to lead her astray and yet she felt compelled to follow, the apparition irresistibly magnetic against her trepidation.

The dread along her spine plunged into her stomach and reached up with cruel claws to scrabble at her heart.

Meanwhile the light had come to a stop like a sad flicker against the forlorn yard.

She felt her skin crawl.

The air grew colder the nearer she drew to the crumbling wall, the pendulum an ominous shadow on top. Her breath fogged up and her lungs filled with frigid damp but when she was finally close enough to reach, the wisp just winked out without a trace, plunging her back into the fog-born gloom.

Her eyes struggled to adjust but with sudden movement just off to her left, her attention snapped into sharp focus. She stilled, ready to bolt like a rabbit before the hawk.

There was a figure, blending in almost perfectly with the roiling shadow of Kaer Morhen’s outer wall, the place where Vesemir had died.

A heartbeat’s hesitation later she began inching closer, his name on her lips a trembling question, but then the figure turned to her and it was all wrong, too tall, too thin to be her old mentor.

Emhyr looked at her dispassionately, eyes cold and dead like she’d never seen them.

“You could have saved him.” he said.

Ciri gasped awake in a cold sweat, dread crawling under her skin.

Later, as Ciri sat at her vanity, the skilful hands of her ladies-in-waiting taming stubborn locks and weaving delicate braids, she could still feel her skin crawl.

More maids were bustling around but they seemed very far away somehow, unreal like another dream, like she’d wake up properly any minute now. She concentrated on the fingers carding through her hair and the feeling of the comb against her scalp, her mind inexorably drifting through the years, back to a time when witchers held that comb and her life and her future.

Little she-devil he’d called her.

She still felt faint echoes of pride at the moniker but it rang hollow now. The woman looking back at her from the mirror so patient and placid wore her face but she did not feel the connection. This woman was no she-devil.

She was stifled. Helpless. A slave to protocol.

But underneath there was a blazing anger bubbling up from deep within with every new audience, every new courtier and every new missive vying for her attention. After all this waiting and all this playing a good little empress she itched for something truly productive to do.

No.

Ciri frowned.

This was unacceptable.

She was done with waiting – If her spymaster could not produce results then she would.

“Dala, please let general Voorhis know I wish to see him.”

~oOo~

It had been a little over a week since the world had opened up before Geralt and spit out the emperor of Nilfgaard. They had since made some progress, at least judging by Emhyr’s mounting frustration and his growing number of scowls.

By now the sun had long vanished behind the mountains, allowing the evening chill to set in, although Emhyr was still sending the occasional heated glare his way. Geralt ignored it and surveyed their supplies. He’d come well enough prepared for someone running away from his troubles, but that had been for one person. Now they were two and starting to run a bit low on everything. With a sigh the witcher looked around. He’d pretty much picked clear the immediate area. They would have to move out, ready or not.

Emhyr had moved on to ignoring him right back for now, intent on the task at hand. He still managed to exude annoyance however while he butchered the rabbits that would become their dinner. The emperor was surprisingly adept at the task, even if his hands sometimes still shook a bit, severing hide from meat and meat from guts with little hesitation.

Geralt watched him over the licking flames of their fire, the scent of copper heavy in his nose, and it struck him just how little he looked the part of emperor now, hands bloodied, jaw stubbly and wearing Geralt’s spare jerkin. Still, all about his posture was undeniably regal despite their less than stately circumstances.

Emhyr noticed him looking and frowned. “What is it?”

He really had been much more agreeable asleep, the witcher mused. “I still need to take care of that wyvern.”

“Does that mean we are leaving soon?” Emhyr paused in his work, seemingly unconcerned.

Geralt wondered if he’d imagined the note of eagerness in that question. “After I get the wyvern.”

“Well, where is it?”

“About half a day’s ride up the mountain.” Geralt tipped his head in the direction of the peak rising in the distance behind them.

That had been the wrong answer. He watched Emhyr’s mouth twitch as he followed his gesture looking up at the stony crest.

“That is the exact opposite direction of where we need to go.”

“The contract is well paid. We’re gonna need that money.” Geralt shrugged. “I’m not exactly flush with coin, even when it’s just Roach and me.”

He watched Emhyr scowl at the mountain for a change but not even he could argue with the logic of that. Or with the necessity of travel funds.

Finally he sighed, long-suffering. “Very well, witcher. It is a detour but a necessary one.”

“Great.” Geralt rolled his eyes. He didn’t need Emhyr’s blessing but he bit his tongue on any clever remarks. This journey would be easier for both of them if they could manage to not antagonize each other too much. “We’re leaving at dawn.”

~oOo~

Dawn came in a grey haze, draping the peaks of the Kestrel mountains in billowing swaths of mist but by the time they were on their way, the sun had found its strength and broken through, dispersing the clouds hanging onto the mountainside and filling the valleys.

They had started the day with an argument about how to best store Emhyr’s chain of office and neither Emhyr nor Geralt had attempted conversation since. The collar in question, along with his signet ring, was now hidden away deep in Geralt’s saddle bags, padded with scraps of cloth and wrapped in a rabbit pelt to protect it from the elements and from scratches.

Now Geralt lead the way through the forest on forgotten roads and fading game trails. He’d left him the horse, the same stallion Emhyr had gifted him back in Vizima, but the further they went, the more treacherous the path became and eventually they were both walking. The witcher set a leisurely pace with frequent breaks and Emhyr knew it was because of him.

He pretended not to need it despite the persistent burning in his lungs and in his legs.

But still, they made good time on their way up the mountain.

The sun crept ever higher and with its warm rays adding to the exertion Emhyr soon felt sweat running down his back, hoping they would get sooner rather than later to wherever it was they were going.

Just then a shadow passed overhead and the fauna went quiet. No birds sang and no deer twitched, not even the mountain goats dared move a muscle as they watched the wyvern circle high in the sky. And so did the witcher. He followed the beast overhead, keen eyes tracking its flight, contemplating, what exactly Emhyr did not know. He was just glad for the opportunity to catch his breath.

“How do you intend to bring it down?” he asked, trying not to sound dubious.

The witcher replied with some amusement, “You’ll see.”

They did not go much further after that, just a little up the path to where the slope levelled off and formed a natural plateau, still sheltered amidst the trees and easily defensible. Geralt left him standing on the edge of a small clearing, holding the horse, while he walked the perimeter. He would still here, take a sniff there and then bend down for a closer look at whatever tracks lost themselves in the undergrowth, all the while muttering to himself. Eventually he straightened up again and cast a last glance around.

“We’ll make camp here,” Geralt declared, “leave Roach and the gear behind. Not gonna need most of it. Then we head for the tree line”

Emhyr looked towards the peak, trying to judge how far they would have to go yet and suppressed a sigh. He would not show this weakness. The witcher noticed anyway.

“It’s not far anymore, really,” he said in a tone that was maybe meant to be reassuring, “we’ll be there by midday”

Emhyr just could not find it in himself to summon any enthusiasm for the prospect.

Geralt eyed him critically. “Do you need a rest?”

Yes.

“No,” he said and waved him off. “Let us just get this over with.”

The witcher tilted his head the way dogs and children did when they found something curious and Emhyr challenged him with a glare.

Geralt just shook his head. “Alright.”

The witcher proved to be right and they made it as the sun reached its zenith. Again he tested their surroundings before deciding on a spot near where the trees began to thin out but the undergrowth still offered generous cover. Emhyr staggered after him and slid down against a tree trunk before his legs could give out under him. He let his head fall back and then his eyes fell closed on their own volition. Something blocked out the light piercing through the foliage and he forced himself to look up at the witcher.

“I’ll prepare bait for the wyvern,” Geralt told him. “You stay put here.”

“Hmm.”

Just then the wyvern circled back overhead, closer this time, and Geralt looked up as well.

“I’ll be back soon,” the witcher told him with a last glance over his shoulder and then stalked away.

Emhyr stretched out sore limbs and closed his eyes again, just to rest them for a moment and just like that, he was fast asleep, not even the persistent aching of his shoulder able to keep him up.

He jolted awake some time later with the witcher’s hand on his shoulder, emerging from a confusing whirlwind of impressions with a lump in his throat, the voices of his past following him out into the waking world.

“You alright?” Geralt asked.

For a moment he looked at the witcher, uncomprehending, but then reality came crashing back and he flinched away from the unexpected touch.

“Of course,” he snapped but he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

The witcher rocked back on his heels, hands held up in placation, and retreated to the other side of their hideout. He was still watching.

Emhyr looked away.

And heard bleating nearby. When he peered through the bushes, he saw one of the mountain goats staked out on the plain beyond the trees.

“I surmise that is the bait,” he said, hoping for a change of topic.

“If I’m quicker than the wyvern it’ll also be our dinner,” the witcher replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes that Emhyr knew just all too well from Cirilla.

“How did you get the goat?”

“Axii’d it.”

“Your witcher magic?” It was almost more statement than question but Emhyr couldn’t help but ask. Not much was known about witcher skills in general and that held true for their use of magic as well.

“Signs,” Geralt corrects, offhanded and clearly not interested in elaborating any further. He nodded towards the goat. “Might take a while.”

Emhyr sat up straight. “Did you bring cards?”

They had left the bulk of their gear behind with the horse, however the witcher had shouldered a satchel with the ‘essentials’ as he had called it.

Geralt smiled and fished out their decks in lieu of an answer. He handed the Northern Realms to Emhyr and began shuffling Nilfgaard. Emhyr followed suit and all cards properly mixed up they exchanged decks and began playing.

They sat hidden in the underbrush, quietly passing the time, when suddenly everything happened just a bit too fast for Emhyr’s human reflexes.

One moment the witcher sat across from him, a cheeky almost-smile crinkling his eyes as he dismantled Emhyr’s strategy, the next Geralt had dropped his hand and was halfway out the bush already, with one of his little potion vials at his lips, before Emhyr had even registered the motion. The witcher had some good cards too, he noted, before the massive winged lizard caught his attention.

It was a magnificent creature but in that moment so was the witcher. Apex predator against apex predator.

All pretence of humanity forgotten Geralt circled the wyvern with inhumane elegance and a speed that made his sword practice look sluggish, darting in and out for one devastating blow after the other while the enraged monster snapped after shadows in a futile attempt to catch its hunter. In the end it stood no chance.

Emhyr joined the witcher once the wyvern had gone completely slack. The goat at its stake was bleating and bucking madly.

“Saved our dinner,” Geralt told him with a smug grin.

He had known of the witcher’s strength and reflexes of course, but it was something else entirely to witness in person. Emhyr watched him methodically gut the creature for parts and cut off its head as a trophy and felt a new sort of respect for the man bloom in his chest.

~oOo~

That evening Voorhis awaited her by the western gate, dressed down as she had requested and as inconspicuous as any aristocrat could manage.

“My lady!”

“Walk with me, general,” Ciri bid him in passing, ignoring his hastily sketched bow.

“Yes, my lady.”

A dark strand fell into her face and Ciri brushed it aside. She felt Morvran stare.

Ciri raised an eyebrow at him. “It is just a glamour, general, no need to look so shocked.”

He blushed, abruptly looking away. “Of course, forgive me, my lady.”

Ciri sighed. “It’s alright.” She’d seen herself in the mirror with these doe brown eyes and even darker locks. It really brought out her resemblance to Emhyr. But her ashen hair was too well known, too unique. She’d stand out and that was the one thing she didn’t need right now.

Ciri manoeuvred them down the ramp and let her eyes roam as if by accident, checking for observers or spies. Satisfied nobody was listening she stepped in closer to Morvran. He kept pace, although she felt him stiffen at the proximity.

“You said you wished to help me,” Ciri said. “In whatever capacity you can.”

“I-”

She caught him by the arm before he could say anything and forced him to look at her. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation and grasped her hand between his. “Absolutely.”

His tone was solemn but Ciri searched his eyes for a moment longer. Morvran held her gaze, confident and unflinching at least in this.

Then she smiled, satisfied, and continued down the ramp. “Good.”

“Come on.” She tugged him along and began explaining. “We are going to conduct our own investigations.”

“May I ask why? I was under the impression Rideaux and his spy corps were already on it.”

“And yet they fail to produce results!” Ciri snapped her mouth shut to prevent any further outbursts, then continued more deliberately. “It has been a week and the spymaster still has little to show for his investigations. I am sure he has missed something. Some evidence. Some lead.” It was hard to resist the urge to throw her hands up. Instead she watched Morvran grapple with his next question, no doubt worried about her reaction.

“With all due respect, my lady,” he began, “but what do you expect to accomplish that our intelligence network couldn’t do?”

“Fair question,” she said and inclined her head. “I have learned from witchers, druids and sorceresses, general, from priestesses, gangs, Aen Elle and so many more – I can do things our spies couldn’t even dream of.” Ciri smirked up at him, daring him to doubt her, but then she turned serious.

“I need to do this,” she admitted. “I need to do _something_.”

Ciri saw the understanding in his eyes, an echo of her own impatience.

He offered her a weak smile. “Well, if you want it done right, you have to do it yourself.”

Relief washed over her and she smiled back, warm and genuine. “Exactly.”

“Still, would it not be wiser to at least take a guard along, for your safety?” Morvran looked back at the palace, his face apprehensive, and then eyed Ciri.

That brought a laugh out of her. “Witcher-trained, general! I am more than capable of being my own guard.” She shook her head. “And besides, going with an escort would defeat the purpose, they would just scare off any potential witnesses. It is important we blend in.” She gestured vaguely down at her disguise.

“The emperor is going to have my hide if anything happens to you.” Morvran sighed.

They had reached the bottom of the ramp and Ciri lead him into an alcove out of sight. Thus hidden she turned to face Morvran. “I need someone who knows this city and its people. So,” Ciri held out her hand, “are you in?”

She counted her heartbeats until he took it.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya friends!  
> Exams are done and I'm aliiiiive. However with all the stress suddenly over, my muse has gone on vacation. I'm dragging her back, kicking and screaming, to get back into the swing of writing and I hope the next chapter won't take as long as this one did ;P  
> As always, comments are super appreciated and I still squee over every Kudo - thank you all for your lovely support!


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